


Theatrical Muse Entries

by baranduin



Category: Lord of the Rings (2001 2002 2003), Lord of the Rings - Tolkien
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-13
Updated: 2010-01-13
Packaged: 2017-10-06 06:18:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/50606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/baranduin/pseuds/baranduin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>These are entries written for Theatrical Muse on LJ from Frodo's perspective. The format is that of question and answer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Theatrical Muse Entries

**Author's Note:**

> I've marked the piece as being M/M but only one section is.

**Do you believe in love at first sight?**

We aren't raised that way in the Shire. Not when there are crops to sow and reap and animals to take care of and children to raise. There's not time for such nonsense; that is, there's not time for most hobbits.

I think Bilbo believes such things. You see, when I was little, even before I went to live with him at Bag End, he used to read to me from his Elvish books—translating a bit into the Common Tongue for me when I was younger, and then, when I was older, making me do the translations as best I could.

He read so many tales to me and I believe he loved them all, but his voice always grew soft and low when he told me a tale of love, all full of great trials and separations and that magic spark when the lovers first meet and just _know_.

Now, don't get me wrong about Shire folk. They love strong and true, but it seems to grow slow and take its time to find its proper seasons. Like Sam and his Rose. Perhaps it's better that way.

When I was in Rivendell, I heard that special tone in Bilbo's voice when he asked Aragorn about the lady Arwen. It surprised me for a moment, for I'd heard it not so many days before that night in the Hall of Fire. I'd heard it in the dell under Weathertop when Aragorn had recited the story of Beren and Luthien.

But it's not really something for hobbit folk, is it? It wouldn't stand the wear and tear of daily living.

Would it?

 

 

**What is more important--forgiveness or self-preservation?**

I believe it's easy to say that forgiveness is more important than saving oneself from harm, but it's the living of it that tells the true tale. Actually, if I am to be honest with you, my dear readers, I cannot say that I was wise enough to claim forgiveness as the higher virtue before I'd had the chance to test it in even the smallest fire.

You see, when Gandalf first told me of Gollum, I cannot say that my thoughts were charitable or kind. It was right over there, across this room, by the hearth, that we talked. And when Gandalf told me of this wretched creature, I panicked right away though I was safe in the quiet heart of my own home in my own dearest Shire. And even safer with Gandalf by my side, though I did not understand his true power at the time. Another lesson I learned.

When Gandalf told me Gollum's history, all I could think was that he should be killed, that he was a wicked creature who had nothing of value left in him. Gandalf reproved me, and though his words made sense and I knew I would keep them in my heart, nevertheless I still thought it a foolish thing that this Gollum had not been killed when the chance had been there.

But then I came face to face with him.

If not for Gollum, if not for my heeding Gandalf's words to show pity--forgiveness for black deeds and thoughts--where would we all be? Where would I be?

At night when the old pain comes and I cannot sleep, the house is so quiet. Even with Sam and Rose and Elanorelle here with me, the house grows so quiet some nights that I can hardly bear it. When that happens and I sit in my study writing in Bilbo's old book, trying to find the words to tell the tale of what happened to me and my friends, sometimes I stop and listen to what the quiet has to say to me.

_Nice master ... nice master to look after Smeagol ..._

Yes, I believe that forgiveness is the greater virtue.

 

 

** How did you lose your virginity?**

When we stayed in Rivendell before setting out for Mordor, Elrond told me that, though the world was full of darkness and danger, not all were gone in evil. He said that I might happen upon some places that still held peace within them and that I might meet new friends when I least expected it.

It was so green, this land that I came to, unlooked-for indeed but as welcome and needful as a mug of ale after a long day's tramp through the Green Hill country. No, that's not quite right. It was as needful as one swallow of sweet water when your mouth is so parched and dry that you can barely speak.

I do not like to say much more as I do not think it would be respectable or proper, my reputation as one of the Mad Bagginses notwithstanding. Perhaps I can find a few words that will not betray us too far.

There was pain, yes, a little. There was pleasure, so much pleasure that it still amazes me that it happened in that place and time. It is true that there was too little time for us, but I remember it as if it were yesterday.

I will never see him again. Sometimes it makes me sad, but I do not regret that we lay together for one night.

I suppose saying even this much proves the mutterings of the likes of Ted Sandyman, but you see, this is not something that can be written in Bilbo's book. But it is close to my heart and deserves to be set down somewhere for he showed me a kindly and gentle regard at a time when I thought I would never see such a thing again. The memory of it warms me at night when the cold and dark presses too close.

 

 

**Guilty pleasures?**  
Before or after it all happened?

I don't think I have the nerve to say what it is now, so I'd best get on with telling you about before.

Now, you'd think that, after being beaten and shown to dogs (who had the biggest, sharpest teeth I'd ever seen) who were given very specific instructions to tear me apart if I was found thieving again, any sort of pleasure associated with this activity would have disappeared in abject fear. Did I mention that the dog's owner seemed to communicate to his wargish canines in a series of snaps and growls? There were words there, but at the time they didn't seem like anything I'd ever heard, and certainly couldn't have been the Common Tongue. In retrospect, it is possible that fear clouded my mind's ability to understand the words spoken.

Ahem. Where was I? Ah, yes. I was musing that you, dear readers, would certainly think it impossible that I could have found any pleasure in stealing mushrooms once I'd been found out and given a thrashing as well as had dire imprecations shouted at me on what would happen if I did it again.

You would be wrong, and I confess that I kept on doing it (though was quiet and clever enough not to get caught again). Then again, I don't expect that you've ever sunk your teeth into a glorious mouthful of Farmer Maggot's mushrooms all fried up with the best crispy bacon to be found in the Four Farthings. Sara and Esmie were very particular with respect to their provisions and always knew where to find the best of everything, and especially bacon, to which they were very partial. I always made sure to take a bit of bacon with me when I set out from across the Brandywine on one of my foraging expeditions, just as I always somehow managed not to eat all of my treasure before returning. Fair's fair, as the Gaffer might say.

It's odd, don't you think, that the mushrooms I stole always seemed to have a special savor to them? That is, special compared to the same mushrooms that Bilbo purchased quite regularly at the Bywater market and which were always advertised as "Farmer Maggot's Fancy Marish 'Shrooms." Not that I'm complaining. It fair made tears come to my eyes the first time I saw that sign after I'd moved to Hobbiton, especially as at the time I thought I'd never have any of them again except for when I visited Buckland.

Ah, I can almost taste them now all these years later. There's never been anything so toothsome as those mushrooms.

There's another thing that's odd, and perhaps you can make sense of it for me. Sam and Rosie buy a basket of Farmer Maggot's mushrooms when they see them in Bywater, but they just don't taste the same to me. I can't reckon it out why that is, and I can't imagine that my memory would be off that much.

I've tried to, and sometimes I think I have the why of it but it slips away from me just when I think I've found the words to explain it. Perhaps it's better this way.

Then again, perhaps it's my punishment for coveting them so terribly when I was young and heedless.

Ah, well. Fair's fair. As for what my guilty pleasure is now? That's for another time.

 

**If you could have dinner with anyone in history, who would it be and why?**

Oh, that's so easy to answer. It popped right into my head as soon as I read the question.

It's funny. I was going to say that this person isn't anyone grand or renowned in history, but I'd be quite wrong and I think he'd agree with me.

There's nothing I'd rather do than walk inside Bag End after a long tramp in blustery autumn weather. I think it might even be raining so that the warmth and light inside my home would be that much more welcoming.

Bilbo would be in the kitchen just putting the finishing touches to our dinner. He'd turn to me as I come inside and smile at me. "Have a good time, Frodo? You must tell me where you went, and no skimping on the details. I want to know everything!"

It's possible that I might forget to wash my hands though they'd be more than a little grubby with sap and soil. But that's one of the benefits of being a tweenaged hobbit living with his bachelor cousin. (It's also possible that we might well leave the washing up after dinner to the next day ... or even the day after that if the weather is fine and Bilbo remembers a new path he wants to show me.)

Our dinner would be simple—perhaps a hearty vegetable soup or roasted chicken or shepherd's pie. Our conversation would start out that way as well, but it wouldn't necessarily stay rooted in potatoes or apples or anything so homely though it might well be a potato that sets Bilbo off.

"Frodo, my lad," he might say to me. "Did I ever tell you about the time I met a group of Elves and they gave me as fine a supper outside under the stars and trees as I've ever had?"

And he'd be off. I'd be off with him and wishing that I could have been there in person to have tasted this fine supper.

But all in all, if I could choose one person in history to share a dinner with, it would be my cousin Bilbo before he went away on the night of his eleventy-first birthday and the shadow grew between us. The dinners we shared over the years were the finest I've ever had, and that's saying quite a bit considering the grand tables I've been fortunate enough to sit at.

There's no going back, though, and I don't think this is what you meant for me to be writing—some foolish desire to turn back the seasons. Doesn't work that way.

But still, I would choose to have dinner with my cousin Bilbo no matter the years and sorrows that have come between us. I rather think I'll manage that soon, and in spite of the tears that will fall, it will be a merry meeting.

 

 

**What makes you laugh?**

When I lived at Brandy Hall, there was a game we youngsters used to play, though calling it a game might not be quite right since there was nothing of winning or losing to it. Here's how it went.

If the weather was fine and dry, we'd go outside. There was a grass-grown field across the way, just opposite one end of the Hall, and it was the perfect place for a gaggle of hobbit children to play in. (The fact that it was close to the kitchen entrance and that we'd see the cooks going in and out certainly had nothing to do with our preference.)

Ahem. Where was I? Well, someone would lie down on his back in the middle of the field and then someone else would lie down and put his head on the first person's stomach. And on and on until we were all lying down in a twisting turning sort of pattern. And wouldn't you know that the sensation of having your head on someone's stomach—most likely listening to what that someone had had for second breakfast and on some occasions (these were less frequent) listening to gurgles and groans and squeaks from someone's empty belly—would make us all laugh and laugh and laugh until we were out of breath?

There was something so light about that laughter. It wasn't about laughing at a jest or a funny song or even at one of the Sackville-Bagginses tripping over something in the road. There was just something about having your head on someone's stomach and feeling it jiggling up and down as that person giggled away that made you laugh yourself. It felt good to do it. I think that's it. It just plain felt good.

I haven't thought of that in many years, but your question reminded me that I still enjoy that sensation sometimes. These days, I laugh like that when I watch Sam with his Elanorelle. There's something about the way her eyes light up when he comes into the kitchen at Bag End at sunset. She'll be lying in her cradle, Rosie will be putting the finishing touches to our supper, and I'll be sitting at the table perhaps doing a little writing or just enjoying the warmth and the peace. And then Sam comes inside and Ellie's eyes just light up and so do Sam's. When he picks her up, she starts to gurgle with pleasure. I don't usually laugh out loud like I did back in the field by Brandy Hall, but the sight of Sam and Elanor together gives me the same feeling. Light, just very light.

 

 

**What is your favorite daydream?**

I don't really have a favorite one any more. Not really. But I remember what it used to be.

When I was in my tweens and had gone to live with Bilbo in Hobbiton, I used to like to sit outside Bag End on a quiet afternoon and look out toward the village. Everything was always so regular in the way folks went about their business—the Gaffer leaning against his gate as he passed the time of day with a passerby, the Widow Rumble setting a hot apple tart on her kitchen window sill to cool.

What I liked best were the looks on their faces when the gaudy red and green dragon would swoop down over Hobbiton, his wings spread and fire streaking from his nostrils. Oh, they'd fall flat on their bellies (though flat might not be quite the proper description given the roundness of their stomachs), shrieking and moaning that the end of the world had come and it must be that dratted wizard's fault for not leaving the Shire in peace. The dragon would eventually perch on top of the mill (that always seemed appropriate to me for some reason) and fold his wings up as though he was settling down for a long stay.

About that time, Bilbo would come out of Bag End, puffing on his pipe and chortling. Oh, his eyes would be so bright! He'd turn to me and say, "Well, well! Looks like we're going to have a bit of an adventure for ourselves, doesn't it, Frodo? Come on!"

And off we'd go to save the Shire.

 

 

**Hearing, sight, taste, touch, smell – which sense would be the worst to lose?**

My sight.

Though when I think back to that day when Sam held me in his arms on the ash and rock of Gorgoroth and the only thing left to me was seeing His eye, perhaps you might think that sight is the one thing I would not mind losing. You would be wrong.

They are all precious to me, almost as precious now as when each one came back to me in the newborn green of Ithilien. The simple taste of cool, clean water. The softness of wool blankets against my skin. The sound of fearless birdsong in the wood and the laughter of free men. The scent of clean soil and grass and herbs. When I finally woke in Ithilien, all those things surrounded me and I almost cried from the joy of them, so unexpected were they. But I didn't open my eyes. I didn't want to, not at first. I thought it would all disappear, that I was being given a little rest for a time and that it would just all fade away once I opened my eyes.

Eventually I found myself curious about exactly where I was, even though I was sure I was dead. But I gave myself a little talking to and then opened my eyes.

I was lying in a narrow cot in a tent with rounded sides. And Gandalf was sitting next to me, smoking his pipe just as he'd done by the hearth in Bag End with me so many times.

We said no words to each other for many long minutes, at least not aloud. There wasn't any need. Anyway, everything I needed to know I saw with my eyes—happiness and merriment in his eyes, worry and care in every line etched on his face, the attentive tilt of his head toward me. Joy and love above all.

It seemed like hours had passed when I finally spoke. "Sam?"

Gandalf turned his head and nodded. I followed his gaze and saw my Sam, my dearest Sam, asleep on a cot next to mine.

Alive.

I could have looked at him for the rest of my life. Just to see with my own eyes that he lived, that he had not sacrificed everything, though I know he would have.

Sight. It is dear to me.

 

 

**What would you take with you to a desert island?**

I thought at first that a palantir would be on my list, but after considering it at length, how very sad it would be to possess one. Not just because it would be a cold, cold thing to be able to observe what is happening in the lands that I know without being able to play an actual part in events, but what if I were to see something bad? And what if only my knowledge would be able to fix something? So no, I don't think that I shall choose a palantir as one of my companions in my exile because once you have left your home, you have left it and must face the future.

There are so many things I could choose, some for my comfort and some for my assistance—pipeweed, clean water, books to read, writing implements, salted pork and dried apples, a change of clothes, a barrel of ale, a warm blanket, flint and tinder to start a fire, a flagon of miruvor for when hope fades. They would all be very nice, I'm sure.

I won't deny that I'd like to choose my three companions during the War of the Ring—Sam, Merry and Pippin—but it was selfish of me to allow them to come along the first time. So I wouldn't do that again (though I suspect they would be searching high and low throughout Middle-earth and beyond its shores to find me, and that is all the comfort I would need).

But really, if I were to be stranded in some strange place—island or not—I think the best thing to have with me would be Aragorn. After all, wasn't it said that he was the greatest huntsman and traveler of his age? Surely, no matter what might befall us during our exile, he would be the companion most suited to help us find our way home and make the best of our situation.

And he tells a fine story at night around a campfire.

 

 

**Most important decision?**

I never really felt that it was my decision to take the Ring so I'm not sure that I could call it the most important one I've ever made, though I realize the nature of the effect it had on everything. I'm not sure if I can explain it well enough, but it always felt like it was something that was ordained and not by me. I hope that doesn't make me sound like I've got a case of sour grapes or that I felt coerced into it. I think it's probably better to say that, once I picked up the envelope from the mantelpiece where Bilbo had left it and took out the Ring, my path was laid out for me though I could not see what would come of it and what would happen to everyone and everything.

Perhaps I'm suffering here from a lack of imagination—thinking that decisions and choices are things made in a dramatic fashion with stirring words for all to see. (Or perhaps I have too _much_ imagination.) But it was all very much more gradual for me so that when the moment arrived in Rivendell, all I could think to say was, "I will take it though I do not know the way." Or words to that effect. Not terribly dramatic, and you'd best believe that Bilbo harangued me about it after the Council was over and in the weeks before the Fellowship departed. "Frodo, my lad," he'd said to me as we sat in his little room and he transcribed my adventures between Hobbiton and Rivendell into his book. "We shall have to think of words more suitable to the occasion." That still makes me smile to think back on it.

Maybe I'm just a little selfish and want to think that my most important decision lies ahead of me, that there's another road for me to choose. That not all my crossroads have been encountered and left behind already. I'd like to think that. I do know that there is at least one more choice that I must make, and soon. And I do think it will prove rather important to me if not to the world at large.

 

 

**What one moment in your life would you change?**

I did not know that Boromir had died until I woke at the Field of Cormallen and my companions sat with me and filled me in on all that had happened since we parted on the shores of Nen Hithoel. So many people and places and battles that it amazed me.

Oh, yes, I do remember that Faramir had told me Boromir had perished, that his horn had washed up on the shores of the Anduin and that it had been cloven in two. He described it so well that it could have been no other. And yet … Faramir seemed fey to me and I thought it possible that what he had seen of Boromir had been a dream, insubstantial as the thick mist that sometimes covered the banks of the Great River and possibly kept him from full sight.

It was not that I disbelieved him. He was an honorable and truthful man from the beginning. That much was clear to me as soon as he spoke.

I believe this is called wishful thinking, isn't it? Sam's Gaffer would have a more down to earth name for it, I imagine, one that would make me smile even though it would irritate me as well. He'd probably tell me that if wishes were taters, he'd be the one living up in Bag End.

It was not Boromir's fault, what he did, and I wish he had lived. I would have liked to have seen him standing happy and proud upon the walls of his White City, with his hair blowing behind him as it did that day we passed the Argonath.

You might wonder if I would change who carried the Ring if I could. Who wouldn't wonder that, and who wouldn't wish it? Well, I don't. I wouldn't wish such a thing on anyone, so I wouldn't change that moment when I took the envelope in my hands and wondered what in Middle-earth Bilbo had left me that made Gandalf look so solemn.

No, I would not change that, but I would have Boromir back happy and free of Its sway over him.

 

 

**Oddest gift?**

*cough*

It seems to me that a fairly short but significant portion of my life consisted of me being given one odd thing after another, though perhaps it's irresponsible and too light-hearted of me to use the term "odd" for so many wondrous things.

But really, at the time they did seem odd to me, beginning with the Ring.

It was such a plain thing, without any visible markings on it. Quite a lovely thing if I may say so. But it just seemed so terribly odd to me that Bilbo would leave it to me, not to mention leaving it to me in a plain paper envelope. As far as I could remember, he never let it out of his sight, usually keeping it tucked away in one of his breeches pockets. I could always tell when he was uncomfortable with a situation or being around certain people (yes, I am referring to our dearly beloved S-Bs) because he'd jam his hand into his pocket and fiddle with the Ring rather like a hobbit child with his favorite toy. Though of course the Ring was not a toy, not that I had the slightest inkling of its true nature and neither did Bilbo. But it was certainly very odd, very odd indeed that it came to me and in such a seemingly nonchalant manner.

A sword? Why on earth would a hobbit need a sword? Yet that's what Bombadil pulled out from the pile of the treasure hidden away so many years in the Barrow. I thought it odd at the time, though in the event it certainly came in handy, not that I was able to do much with it.

By the time I got to Rivendell, carrying a sword no longer seemed so strange to me, but I still could not imagine needing such a grand one as Sting. And don't get me started on the mithril shirt, which was as unhobbit-like a garment as I've ever seen. Can you imagine a hobbit wearing such a thing outright? Well, I certainly couldn't, but I took Bilbo's advice and always wore it beneath my other garments, and it's a good thing I did.

The phial. "_May it be a light to you when all other lights go out,_" she said to me.

Oh, I cannot call Galadriel's gift to me odd though it was certainly unique in all the many beautiful things that I have seen in Middle-earth. I think the only thing that comes close to it in beauty and significance is the crystal pendant that Arwen gave me in Minas Tirith. I still have both of them with me though I no longer need to use the phial to find the light. But I keep it by my bedside, and sometimes when I'm not well and I have Arwen's crystal clutched tight in my hand, I turn my head and the phial is glowing again. Not bright, not unearthly bright as it did in Shelob's cave, but with a quiet, companionable glow that lifts my spirits no matter how low I am at the moment.

I suppose you might say that I like odd things. Or at least most odd things, being a little odd myself.

 

 

**If you could live anywhere, where and why?**

22 September 1410 S.R.

Just a small celebration this evening to raise a toast (or two or three) to Bilbo's and my Birthday. Merry and Pippin were here, Folco and Fatty too. I think between us, we managed to put away a most respectable amount of Old Winyards, not to mention a rather embarrassing quantity of food. Though, considering that I spent most of the past few days baking, I'm glad to see it all enjoyed so much.

I wonder where Bilbo is tonight. Gandalf too.

I've gotten used to Bilbo not being here, and I can't deny that the pleasures of being master of Bag End are considerable. But I do wonder where he is, especially when autumn comes. What road did he take when he stepped out of Bag End's door nine years ago to this very day? Has he had more wonderful adventures? Who has he met, and where has he been? Is it beautiful where he is now? As beautiful as the Shire?

And Gandalf. I wonder where Gandalf is right now and when I'll see him again. I can't help having the feeling that I won't see him for a long time, though I don't know why I should think so. He's been very good about popping in and out of Hobbiton to check up on me. Oh, he says he just wants to see me but I know better, or rather, I know his visits are driven by need other than friendship even though I don't know exactly what it is. After all, I wasn't born yesterday, nor with a cabbage for a brain as the Gaffer would no doubt say.

The first three or four years after Bilbo left, Gandalf visited a lot though he rarely stayed long. I'm afraid his collusion in Bilbo's rather startling disappearance has set some of the Shirefolk against him, so he's been careful not to show himself very much. Or if they're not actually set against him, it's certainly made them enjoy their gossip about him more than they had. It quite irritates me sometimes.

The last time Gandalf was here, I almost asked if I could go with him as he was preparing to leave, but I lost my nerve at the last moment. Though he didn't say where he was going, I thought that, from a few things he mentioned about how long he'd be on the road, he was beginning quite a long journey, possibly even as far as the Misty Mountains.

I should like to see the mountains one day though I don't suppose one would find any hobbits or hobbit holes there. Hmph, unless you call a cave a hobbit hole, which seems like it would be most unpleasantly damp and cold.

It's been a beautiful autumn in the Shire. I'm not sure I can remember such a beautiful one, nor such a bountiful harvest. I shall be very snug here in Bag End as winter begins to bite, though I think I might take one last tramp before that happens. Perhaps this time, I might go as far as the Brandywine Bridge before turning back and setting my face toward home again, as I expect I always shall.

 

 

**What is your idea of a perfect evening?**

I've had a lot of perfect evenings in my life so I don't have to imagine what it would look like. I can see them before my eyes now (and the meals that went along with them). But if I had to choose just one as emblematic of them all, I'd go back in time to the first birthday party that Bilbo and I shared after he'd adopted me and brought me to live at Bag End. I remember sitting next to Bilbo and looking at all the hobbits gathered around us (no Sackville-Bagginses, thank you very much) and just being very happy and peaceful. It seemed to me as the hour grew close to midnight and we'd all been drinking deeply of Old Winyards that I was looking at my future spread out before me in peace and happiness. Oh, I knew that the inhabitants of Hobbiton could be petty and small-minded, I wasn't that innocent, especially not after living in Brandy Hall for so many years. But it didn't matter because I knew I'd found my home and I was content to spend my life there. And I knew that this perfect evening would be repeated year after year until my hair grew white as Bilbo's.

 

 

**What would your life be if it were a movie?**

Don't really need to answer this one, do I? But I will say that I was pleased overall with Elijah's performance.

Except that I don't have big blue eyes. Brown, you know.

Oh, and I rarely fall over. (Or perhaps I should say that I used to rarely fall over. Advancing age has made that statement somewhat less true.) Honestly, given the enormous foot size the hobbits sported in the film (much exaggerated, needless to say), how could I have fallen over so often and so dramatically? Those things would have kept me rooted and balanced no matter what forces were set against me.

Never been much of a crier either. Just thought I'd mention that. I'm not saying that I don't express myself in an emotional manner now and then; of course I do. It wouldn't be natural to hold it all in all of the time. But ...

That bit at the Ford of Bruinen with Arwen? Didn't happen that way. Never clapped my eyes on her until I saw her at the feast in Rivendell and thought her the most beautiful creature I'd ever seen and what on earth was I doing sitting at the same table with her. I had some opportunity to become more acquainted with her, and she was as brave and wise as she was beautiful, but did she rescue me at the Ford? No.

Don't even get me started on that thing Galadriel did with the breastplate and the booming voice. But the crystal phial ... that was well done, very well done indeed, as if the filmmakers had actually seen it and held it in their hands. Quite a mystery to me, actually, how well they, and Elijah of course, managed overall.

The Grey Havens bit surprised me. I didn't realize anyone knew about the smile other than those present. And most of them sailed on the ship, and those who didn't I was sure held the memory in their hearts and never told a soul. I wonder if perhaps Sam wrote it down somewhere. He's never mentioned that to me though he's told me of some of the other things he added to Bilbo's old book before he gave it into Elanor's keeping and took ship himself.

Oh, dear, I'm afraid I've wandered a bit from the topic at hand. I do that quite a bit these days. After all, even if Sam had written it down somewhere other than the Red Book, or he (or Merry or Pip) had told someone about it, how would the filmmakers have known?

Ah, well. This Elijah seems an intelligent and talented young man with a good heart. It wouldn't surprise me at all if he'd figured it out himself, and even if it was a guess, it was an inspired one.

On the other hand, I've heard the most appalling rumor that he's never read the Red Book. I have to confess that when contemplating the possibility doesn't make me cross, it makes me even more astonished at how well he did. Makes me wonder if he might not have inherited a bit of far seeing from somewhere; perhaps there's a hint of the Numenorean somewhere down his ancestral line. I expect his genealogy might be most interesting to dig into.


End file.
